The youngest of the brothers seized the wheel and lifted, exerting such strength that the weightless wheel slipped from his grasp and rose high into the air, where it was caught in the wind and blown away to the east. The wagon, with a block under the axle, had taken no effect from the magic and remained as before.
The wheel rolled away down the sky. From nowhere, or so it seemed, a pelgrane swung down and, seizing the wheel, carried it off.
Cugel and the three farmers watched the pelgrane and the wheel disappear over the mountains.
“Well then,” said the oldest. “What now?”
Cugel gave his head a rueful shake. “I hesitate to make further suggestions.”
“Ten terces is the value of a new wheel,” said the oldest brother. “Pay over that sum at once. Since I never threaten I will not mention the alternatives.”
Cugel drew himself up. “I am not one to be impressed by bluster!”
“What of cudgels and pitchforks?”
Cugel took a step back and dropped a hand to his sword. “If blood runs along the road, it will be yours, not mine!”
The farmers stood back, collecting their wits. Cugel moderated his voice. “A wheel such as yours, damaged, broken, and worn almost through to the spokes, might fairly be valued at two terces. To demand more is unrealistic.”
The oldest brother declared in grandiose tones: “We will compromise! I mentioned ten terces, you spoke of two. Subtracting two from ten leaves eight; therefore pay us eight terces and everyone will be satisfied.”
Cugel still hesitated. “Somewhere I sense a fallacy. Eight terces is still too much! Remember, I acted from altruism! Must I pay for good deeds?”
“Is it a good deed to send our wheel whirling through the air? If this is your kindness, spare us anything worse.”
“Let us approach the matter from a new direction,” said Cugel. “I need lodging for the night. How far is your farmstead?”
“Four miles, but we shall not sleep in our beds tonight; we must stay to guard our property.”
“There is another way,” said Cugel. “I can make the whole wagon weightless —”
“What?” cried the first brother. “So that we lose wagon as well as wheel?”
“We are not the dunderheads you take us for!” exclaimed the second brother.
“Give us our money and go your way!” cried the youngest. “If you need lodging, apply to the manse of Faucelme a mile along the road.”
“Excellent notion!” declared the first brother with a broad grin. “Why did not I think of it? But first: our ten terces.”
“Ten terces? Your jokes are lame. Before I part with a single groat I want to learn where I can securely pass the night.”
“Did we not tell you? Apply to Faucelme! Like you he is an altruist and welcomes passing vagabonds to his manse.”
“Remarkable hats or none,” chuckled the youngest.
“During the olden times a ‘Faucelme’ seems to have despoiled the region,” said Cugel. “Is the ‘Faucelme’ yonder a namesake? Does he follow in the foot-steps of the original?”
“I know nothing of Faucelme nor his forbears,” said the oldest brother.
“His manse is large,” said the second brother. “He never turns anyone from his door.”
“You can see the smoke from his chimney even now,” said the youngest. “Give us our money and be off with you. Night is coming on and we must prepare against the visps.”
Cugel rummaged among the crab-apples and brought out five terces. “I give up this money not to please you but to punish myself for trying to improve a group of primitive peasants.”
There was another spate of bitter words, but at last the five terces were accepted, and Cugel departed. As soon as he had passed around the wagon he heard the brothers give vent to guffaws of coarse laughter.
The mermelants lay sprawled untidily in the dirt, probing the roadside weeds for sweet-grass with their long tongues. As Cugel passed, the lead animal spoke in a voice barely comprehensible through a mouthful of fodder. “Why are the lumpkins laughing?”
Cugel shrugged. “I helped them with magic and their wheel flew away, so I gave them five terces to stifle their outcries.”
“Tricks, full and bold!” said the mermelant. “An hour ago they sent the boy to the farm for a new wheel. They were ready to roll the old wheel into the ditch when they saw you.”
“I ignore such paltriness,” said Cugel. “They recommended that I lodge tonight at the manse of Faucelme. Again I doubt their good faith.”
“Ah, those treacherous grooms!* They think they can trick anyone! So they send you to a sorcerer of questionable repute.”
Cugel anxiously searched the landscape ahead. “Is no other shelter at hand?”
“Our grooms formerly took in wayfarers and murdered them in their beds, but no one wanted to bury the corpses so they gave up the trade. The next lodging is twenty miles.”
“That is bad news,” said Cugel. “How does one deal with Faucelme?”
The mermelants munched at the sweet-grass. One said: “Do you carry beer? We are beer-drinkers of noble repute and show our bellies to all.”
“I have only crab-apples, to which you are welcome.”
“Yes, those are good,” said the mermelant, and Cugel distributed what fruit he carried.
